Do Not Go Gentle
by silbecoo
Summary: Everything in his life is telling Mike it's time to move on, and maybe that doesn't have to be a bad thing.
1. Chapter 1

Single malt whiskey didn't burn going down, at least not after the third shot. He made note of that, stroking his beard thoughtfully and staring down his reflection across the bar. The place was empty aside from a half asleep bartender and a single waitress filling the salt shakers. Mike had never been a day-drinker, but there was something about how dimly lit the bar was that made it seem okay. He could delude himself into thinking he wasn't being pathetic.

Delusion. That's one thing he'd become quite familiar with. Convincing himself that he wasn't at the end of his career had become an art. His knees only hurt some of the time, muscles in his back twinging only after a long day of up and down, up and down. He was only thirty-six fucking years old. Only in the world of professional athletes was that a decrepit age. Everyone else in the world, all the sane people, could see that he was in the prime of his life. Financially solvent, devastatingly handsome, charming as hell. He let the comments roll off his shoulders, knowing these boys couldn't keep up with him in any other arena, that they were just poking the bear trying to get a response. Telling himself that none of it mattered was easy.

He slammed the shot-glass down on the bar, almost wishing the thing would shatter with the sheer force, leave bloody shards embedded in his palm, give him something to focus on, something to attend to. The bartender gave him an annoyed look before reaching over to pour another shot. "Leave it," Mike grunted, watching the man reluctantly let go of the bottle, giving Mike a wary side-eye. As usual in situations like these, he was humored. Mike Lawson got what he wanted.

Convincing himself that he isn't lonely… well that had involved some rather pleasant encounters and more than a few sports cars lined up in his driveway. Women loved Mike Lawson, loved the slick and expensive suits he wore out to events, loved his platinum credit cards and his giant house in the hills. They loved to swim naked in his pool, to put on a show for the baseball star before letting him throw them over his shoulder and haul them up the stairs to his panty-dropping bedroom with it's expansive bed and egyptian cotton sheets angled in front of an open fireplace and looking up at strategically placed skylights.

And in the morning, depending on whether or not he felt like it, he'd make them breakfast, watch them valiantly try and remain cool and collected as he played boyfriend and served them eggs. It was almost a game to him, to see if he could make them want more, make them start to long for things outside the bedroom. It was borderline cruel, knowing that he had no interest in even a second date, but there was something that compelled him. He needed to know that they wanted to stay and that he was the one telling them to leave. Lonely people didn't tell people to leave.

This time he let the whisky roll around his tongue before he swallowed it. The woodsy notes were pleasant, the burn of alcohol all but absent in his currently tipsy state. This time the waitress was eyeing him as he tipped the bottle over again. He stopped pouring half a second too late, cursing as amber liquid spilled over his fingers. "Shit."

The woman came up beside him with a towel, smiling as she mopped up the mess. "Aren't you a baseball player or something?"

Mike didn't bother looking up at her, instead peering at his reflection again. Christ, when the fuck did he get so old? He nodded at the woman, growling, "Or something."

Signal taken, she scooted away from Mike, shrugging at the bartender and going back to her work. It was a code in places like this: Let the grumpy old bastards stew and leave them alone. Mike wondered how many more shots he would need to pickle his brain, to stop the thoughts that kept circling inside his skull like drunken goldfish. His last delusion had been shattered today, and by no one other than himself.

Convincing himself he didn't have feelings for Ginny Baker was something he'd become astonishingly good at. He was her mentor, her teacher, and she was young. So god damned young. If he closed his eyes he could see what she looked like as a kid, all arms and legs, awkward in every endeavor except baseball, a poster of seasoned baseball player Mike Lawson hanging on her wall.

Jesus, he'd been married and divorced before Ginny had even made it to the bigs. She was a child, a kid who needed guidance. And he was there to give it to her, not to ogle at the way she filled out her uniform, not to blush like an idiot when she teased him about his need for fast cars and even faster women. He wasn't supposed to fucking call her in the middle of the night just to see if he could make her laugh, just to see if she would pick up the phone and talk about how Evelyn made the worst guacamole either of them had ever tasted. That thought alone sent him into a shame spiral, reminding him of the god damned cilantro. He could still see the look on Blip's face, the wide-eyed confusion coming from Omar after his little rant about Ginny's likes and dislikes. It seemed like the only one he was fooling these days was himself.

 _I don't know what I'd do without you._

He laid his head down on the bar. Fuck. He'd been so convinced Ginny Baker would be fine without him. Already she was bonding with Duarte, the other guys on the team slowly but surely becoming family. Al would be there to guide her, Blip there to protect her if the need arose. She didn't need some past his prime first-baseman to pal around with. He couldn't take becoming less and less important to her, to fucking everyone, as he was phased out. Better go out with a fucking bang taking a real shot at winning the world series. His own fading career was something he should be focusing on.

Blip was wrong, Ginny Baker wasn't his legacy. She was her own god damned legacy. Everything she touched turned to gold. All the hard work, all the fucking bald faced determination. It was damn near blinding, and Mike was already on the decline. It was only a matter of time before he was just another burn-out sitting in the dugout as Oscar waited for his contract to run out. And he'd begun to think Ginny would barely even notice him leaving.

 _I don't know what I'd do without you._

Was he lying to himself again? His phone was in his hand before he had time to think about it, scrolling through his recent calls until he saw her name. She was one call away, almost always picked up when it was him, her catcher… her friend. She'd never know how many times he picked up the phone to call her and didn't follow through. Every time he was angry at the world, every time something made him laugh, every time he felt an undefinable longing deep in his gut, there her name was.

Instead of pocketing his phone and drowning his doubt in another shot of whiskey, he tapped her name, his heartbeat skittering nervously. It barely rang twice before she answered, her voice breathy like she'd just been running. He couldn't stop the smile that began to spread across his face. Of course she was running. "Baker, are you busy?"

She paused for a moment, catching her breath, slowing. "Just getting a few miles in before dinner. What's up?"

The proverbial shit had already hit the fan, everything set in motion for his eventual departure. But he wasn't going to make the same mistake as before. This time Ginny was hearing this news from him and him alone. "Can you meet me down at _Lafayette's_? We need to talk."

Again, the pause, this time Mike could hear her breathing softly on the other end of the line. If he closed his eyes he could see the way her lips were slightly parted, brow slightly furrowed, her thinking face. "Yeah, sure… I'll be there in half an hour."


	2. Chapter 2

Ginny didn't know why she was nervous. It was instinctual, something about the way Mike sounded on the phone, his voice low and rough, the cadence off. It had put her on edge.

She hung the phone up, heading straight for _Lafayette's_. Dread began to creep in, pooling in her stomach. She tried to push it away, concentrating on the rhythm her sneakers beat out against the pavement, her heart knocking against her sternum just a little off kilter. It didn't work.

 _We need to talk._ When had anything good ever come from that particular statement? She felt like a tennager again, waiting anxiously to be chided by a coach. Had she done something wrong?

She shook her head at the thought. No. If she had broken some unknown baseball taboo, Mike would be talking it out with her in the clubhouse, flanked by Al and Blip for support. And if it were a technical problem, she'd be hunched over her tablet, watching slow motion replay of a wild pitch. Mike wouldn't have asked her to meet him at a little hole-in-the-wall bar down the street from the training center, his voice roughened by just a touch too much alcohol.

Her nostrils flared at the thought. She knew Mike, knew the way he sounded when he'd had just a little too much to drink. He was a gregarious drunk, all smiles and flushed cheeks, but it also made him quick to lash out, to feel sorry for himself. He'd called her once or twice after a few too many beers and a conversation with the wrong person.

She slowed, starting her cool down a couple blocks from her destination. Passers by were definitely starting to give her looks, even with her cap pulled down low over her eyes. _Ginny Baker is a household name after all._ Amelia's voice echoed in her head. Concentrating on moving at a deliberate pace, she fought the urge to speed back up, whooshy past the nosy nellies..

The attention made her skin crawl, and that alone made her feel like an ungrateful brat. Anyone would tell her she should get used to it, embrace the notoriety that was as much a part of her job security as the health of her pitching arm. But damn it, the furtive glances, the half hidden phones trying to get clandestine photos, it felt like everyone was waiting with baited breath for her to trip, disgustingly eager to catch her in an indelicate situation. The nude photo leak could have gone so horribly. Thank God for Amelia's quick thinking and her exhibitionist teammates.

She chuckled at the memory, a whole group of them acting like high school boys strutting their stuff, hiding from her behind a thin curtain. She hadn't been able to stifle her curiosity, taking a fruitless peek before getting caught. She'd been warm with giddiness, still feeling a strange lightness in her chest, a lightness that had hit her like a ton of bricks when Mike had walked through the door. For a split second she was just glad to see him, glad to have something solid to hold onto before baring her soul, and other things, to the world at large. Then everyone else had poured in, giving her an excuse pull away from the tugging sensation in the pit of her stomach.

Even know, she felt the warmth of a blush on her cheeks, heat creeping out from under her collar. Glancing across the street, latent smile still pasted across her face, she caught the eye of a woman. The would-be paparazzo dropped her hand holding up a cellphone, returning Ginny's smile with an embarrassed one of her own, a nervous little wave pointed in Ginny's direction.

The tension in Ginny's shoulders eased somewhat, rolling down through her limbs as she walked. The paranoia was exhausting, and at the moment it makes her feel silly. It was hard being so keyed up all the time, so on guard.

She rounded the last corner, watching the sun drop down over the horizon, golden rays bouncing off the hills in the distance. She'd forgotten that San Diego wasn't just an endless collection of press rooms and gyms. It was a truly beautiful place with beautiful people. She felt lucky, but also afraid. Nothing good ever lasted.

 _Lafayette's_ was a small bar with large windows facing the street. Hand-painted gold lettering declared the name of the establishment in a script-like font. At this time of evening it was a bit like an aquarium. The soft yellow lights put the the bar's patrons on full display for the people on the street. Ginny saw Mike sitting alone, tipping a single bottle of whiskey for himself, pointedly ignoring the bartender. It was early yet, and there didn't appear to be anyone else around.

Mike looked… unhappy. It wasn't an unusual assessment. His smiles hadn't seemed all the common in the past month, and even when she managed to draw out an exasperated chuckle, there was still something lingering beneath it, a heaviness that she wasn't equipped to examine.

She didn't like the way he looked down into his glass, like he was trying to find answers in the shimmering liquid. It reminded her too much of her father, of the few occasions he let the disappointments of his life crawl up and sit on his shoulders. If anyone knew disappointment it was Bill Baker. His career, his wife, his kids… none of it had turned out the way Bill had envisioned. Ginny knew well enough that there were no answers to be had by sifting through regrets.

Just as she began to feel obscenely voyeuristic, he turned toward her, one hand coming up to touch the back of his neck, as though it felt her gaze burning against his skin. A smiled tugged at the corners of his mouth, eyes crinkling just a bit when he sees her. Her lips curled up in response, that strange thread between them reeling her in. To watch his face change in such a way, because of her… she could barely contemplate what that meant.

Ducking into the bar, her skin suddenly felt too warm. Without the evening breeze to cool it, she was self-conscious about the aura of heat she seemed to radiate. Her heart rate was still a hair too fast, blood pumping through her with each thumping beat, little bursts of adrenaline taking too long to fade away. Her reflection in the mirror behind the bar was incriminating. Cheeks flushed, eyes brighter than normal, dopy smile pasted across her face. It was just the run, she told herself, her inner voice a little more stern than usual. _Pull yourself together, Ginny Baker._

"Ginny." Mike patted the barstool beside him, waving the bartender over. "What'll you have?"

Momentarily thrown off by the way he uses her name. No "Baker," no "rookie." Just Ginny, rolling off his tongue as though he's trying out the mouthfeel. Her mouth bobs open and closed like a fish on dry land. _Stop being weird. He's just drunk._

The seriousness of their impending conversation hit her, nerves making her stomach flip. She turned away from Mike's too intense stare, choosing to speak directly to the bartender. "I'll have what he's having."

Mike nodded, watching the bartender fetch another glass. Measuring out two fingers of whiskey for her, he nudged the crystal tumbler toward her. His careful movements were that of a man keenly aware that he's walking the line of sobriety. She picked up the whiskey, sipping the warm liquid. She'd never had a taste for the stuff, but there was something about the way he was staring at her, his own cheeks flushed, eyes glassy with amusement, that made her tip the glass back and drain it.

She nearly choked. "Oh God, that's awful." Grimacing, she slammed the glass down on the bar, laughing. "Another!"

Mike laughed, a great barking explosion of amusement. Robust against her ears, it echoed in her chest, making her a little breathless. "Mike… you wanted to talk?"

Not one to deny anyone good whiskey, Mike tipped the bottle over, pouring her another two fingers. This time she did sip it, trying to look relaxed as she waited for his answer.

"Did you know the average yearly temperature for San Diego is sixty-four degrees?"

Her eyes narrowed, smile faltering slightly. He had to be going somewhere with this. "Lawson, I know you didn't make me come all the way down here just to talk about the weather."

His eyes widened in feigned innocence, hands up defensively. It would have almost been comical, the way his expression was unintentionally exaggerated, but Ginny couldn't shake the feeling that she was about to have a bomb dropped on her.

"Don't you miss the seasons? Leaves changing color? Cold-ass fucking winters that make your god damned bones ache?" Bitterness crept into his voice and he turned away from her, taking another drink.

Ginny would have never pegged Mike as someone who beat around the bush. Whatever he was going to tell her was bad, and there was only one thing that it could be. _It's not._ She decided to play along with whatever game this was, saying, "Hmm, I don't seem to have that aching bones problem of yours, but no, I don't miss winter all that much."

He was fiddling with his beard now, scratching his chin, smoothing down the neatly trimmed sides, a nervous habit. She wondered if he was aware of it. He continued, "Last year it got down to negative eight degrees in Chicago last year." Again, with the beard, this time stroking it thoughtfully as he pointedly ignored her reflection in the mirror.

Panic fluttered through her. _It's not that._ "Chicago… Mike, what–"

He cut her off, his words clipped. "Come on, Baker. I know you've heard the rumors."

Jaw clenched, she fired back, "You have a no trade clause." On some level she knew it was too late, a forgone conclusion, but she couldn't stop the word vomit. "You love the Padres. San Diego is your home. You're not leaving, Mike."

Her voice trembled on his name, little cracks in the syllables. She swallowed hard, fighting against the hysteria bubbling under the surface. It wasn't like her to get emotional, not in front of a teammate. She did the thing she'd been doing for years, pulling all of the feelings into a tight little ball and holding it down with all her might. It didn't work, the world around her was slipping away. Her anchor was gone.

Tears pricked at her eyes, but she wouldn't let them fall. God damn Mike Lawson and his awful fucking timing. A few weeks earlier and she could have had this convdrsation with nothing more than a sad smile on her face. She would have nodded and told him she'd miss him, could have wished him well and made some stupid joke about "da bears."

 _I don't know what I'd do without you._ She cursed herself. Why had she said that to him? The question circled in and out of her head, making her feel more naive and vulnerable with each pass. Taking a deep breath, she attempted composure, pushing a different question past the lump in her throat. "How long have you known?"

"Since they added Duarte to the roster." He raised his empty glass, toasting some imaginary companion. "To the beginning of the end."

He sounded so morose, so resigned, as though he were hanging up his cleats for good. It wasn't fair to be mad at him for making her care, but she couldn't help it. She clenched her jaw.

"That's bullshit, Lawson." His eyes flashed at her, searingly hot for just a second. She was poking the bear. Mike hurting, Mike lost, this wasn't something she was prepared to deal with. She wanted him angry. She really went in for it. "I can't believe you're giving up the Padres."

It worked. Mike turned on her, moving too close, nose to nose, knees bumping as they perched on their barstools. "What the hell do you know about it, Ginny? You think I have a choice? I can go to another team and play a few years more, get one last shot at a ring, or I can stay here and let Oscar and Al bench me for the rest of my contract and then put me out to pasture.

She wanted to scream in frustration. "What about…" _Why does everyone leave?_ He had to see that he was still valuable to the team, to her. It was selfish. She swallowed the words. "… what about the team? Duarte isn't ready to replace you. He makes rash decisions, and thinks he can feel his way though hitters." _Don't leave._ She was flailing inside, trying to catch hold of the thread between them before it unraveled. Desperate for contact, for reassurance, she reached forward arms going around his neck in an unexpected hug.

She felt him sigh against her neck, warm breath sending a shiver down her spine. When his arms came up around her, she thought for the briefest moment that she'd won, that he was still her catcher.

"I can't stay, Ginny. And it only has a little bit to do with my bad knees."


End file.
